Fat Guy Fly Fishing

Yep. Still thinking about it.

2012-01-26T17:25:00.003-07:00

-A

Port Sulphur, In Some Particular Order of Epicness

2012-01-22T22:25:00.000-07:00

Ziiiip. Push. Pause.

The sound of the wrapped push-pole reminded Alex of a guiro as it slid through the guide’s gloved hands.

Ziiiip. Push. Pause.

The boat crept along through stained water near the bank where birds and small creatures watched suspiciously. Alex removed his sunglasses and squinted into the glare as he wiped water spots from his lenses with the tail of his shirt. There were small faded purple stains on the yellow/green fabric. Fish blood. Why did it turn purple? He didn’t know. Those bonitos always seemed to bleed but he liked the stains. They added legitimacy to the garment. He snugged the glasses back on his face and looked back over his left shoulder at the man on the poling platform.

Ziiiip. Push. Pause.

Shane Mayfield stood above the outboard and stared at the clouds. “Burn off, you mothers,” he said again. The sun’s rays snuck through the grey checkerboard, brightening the landscape and briefly illumination the muddy shallow bottom before being once again blocked by the hanging vapor.

Something unseen ran from the boat leaving little swirls of mud hanging in the water. Cody pointed.

“Sheepshead,” Shane said, and again turned his attention toward the sky. “C’mon you mothers. Burn off.”

Alex stood on the casting platform and stared at gray reflections on the brackish water.

Two days. How long is that? Can you build a relationship with a landscape in 48 hours? Is a three-night -stand getting serious? Will she expect you to call? Come on, baby. Let me see what you got under that blue dress in that stained water. We’re just gonna pole around your marsh for a while, take a little look-see. No harm in that, is there?

The end of the beginning.
Fueled by good whiskey, cheep beer and fried chicken the sextet tumbled out of the van and descended on Woodland Plantation like sieging Viking warriors. Bottles were passed in celebration of the end of the beginning. The Mississippi watched with quiet uninterest. The fog, having a hard time hearing, moved over the bank toward the old plantation house. Cold blooded things kept reasonably still in the dark.

“Who’s the little blind?”
“I am.”
“Four to call?”
“Yeah.”
“Wait, no. That’s not right becau-“
“Yeah it is. Cody was the big blind and he raised two.”
“Whatever. All in.”
“God dammit. Fold”
“Don’t splash the pot.”
“Shuddup and make a move.”
“Hand me the Jameson.”
“Burn and turn.”
“Go Fish.”
Goddammit.”
“You’re retarded.”

The sound of an alarm scratched through the wall and steam floated out from behind the shower curtain as Tony Montana yelled about pelicans in the back bedroom. Down in the church waited cheesy grits, eggs, toast and headaches. Outside there were men with boats who knew how to use them. The sun climbed the orange trees and shooed away the lingering fog. A truck cranked to life.

Rick Mikesell’s beard is a dirty girl.
Bobby zipped his camouflage jacket over the Bass Pro bibs and pulled a buff up to his nose and over the back of his Nike baseball cap. Rick sat to his left going through the same motions. I wiggled lower in the beanbag chair and pulled my hat low, facing the others. The Yamaha 50 burped and rumbled at the back of the boat. The world was blue, cut only by a thin brown horizon that gently swayed with the breeze. Bobby gently thunked the outboard into gear. We ran.

There is always a strange feeling when one first encounters a foreign fishing situation. A perplexity of shapes and colors awaiting mental translation. Is that a fish? A log? Do redfish look like logs? Is it moving? What about that? Just a clump of oysters. A push of baitfish… Mullet? Yeah? Okay. What was that? Sheepshead? Okay, they have the black and white stripes. There goes another one. What am I looking for? Lighter? Look for yellows, reds, golds, a white flash but more golden-white than gray-white. Longer, not plate shaped. Do those Sheepshead eat flies? Sometimes. Strip set, remember. Always strip set.

You are never really sure, until you are sure. It’s like driving down the highway when you think a passing car might have had it’s brights on… then you see a car coming and you know that fuckers brights are on. Redfish? No? Maybe… Wait, right there. Yeah, that’s what I’m looking for.

I remember the first eat. Rick and his beard watched quietly, seated in the back of the boat. I could feel the heat radiating from the red facial hair, giving me strength. The fish were stationary and clearly visible. My crab swam past and a white mouth flashed open and turned away as the line came tight. Stank shook off. I threw a high-five to Rick. His beard gave me a thumbs-up as he climbed onto the casting platform.

The sun made its way across the southern sky and it got fishy.

Rick Mikesell photo.

Surf and Turf.
The group sat with cocktails and spoke of eats and misses. You remember that fish in the back there? I put that fly right in his lap and he blew out. Couldn’t believe it. Like that one you had around the corner, remember that? Yeah, that looked like a good fish. They just look different, you know? The big ones?

Behind the bar Foster nodded and smiled and shucked another oyster which hardly made it to the tray before being whisked away and covered with horseradish and hot sauce. Frank bellied up to the bar and was tossed a piece of ice, the bullet-scar on the back of his head visible in the dull incandescence.

A plate of the fried variety arrived then was quickly gone. The tall ceiling of the church loomed overhead as we sat at the table and drew with crayons while a women asked me if I would like the char broiled red snapper or a sirloin. I took a sip of beer. “Yes.” I looked at Tucker who nodded in approval. “I like the way you think.”

Eats, drinks, poker. You know the story.

Stained water.
The clouds had listened, those mothers, and had burned off a few hours ago leaving clean blue above. Shane ran for clear water and we drifted on the edge, a visible line where the particulates ended and important things became visible. There were big fish here, but the brown water was closing like curtains from either side.

Cody’s hands trembled slightly as he stood up from the edge of the boat. You could have driven an 18-wheeler through his smile. “That’s the biggest fish I have ever caught.” He said, and looked around like he had forgotten where he was. “That was awesome.”

On the last drift I had caught a nice fish, and now it was Cody’s turn to smile big as he relived the catch. The big ones just look different, don’t they?

Sight fishing is the ultimate. If redfish jumped, oh boy. Ultimate.

My big red. Cody Hoeckelberg Photo.

Shane climbed behind the wheel of the boat. “Reel it up, let’s go check another spot.”

I slid the 8wt into the tube and settled plopped down on the cushion. The outboard rumbled and caught. We ran.

End Game.
They were engaged in some serious conversation, and Alex wasn’t a part. Business stuff, you know, talk that had nothing to do with his purpose in this place as an outsider. A hired gun. He got another beer from the bartender and took a walk out the double front doors into the darkness. The night was warm and smelled of water and wet plants. The owl’s cries were ceaseless from the roof of the plantation house as his shoes crunched across the gravel toward the big river. A large container ship was stopped on the bank near the house and millions of lumens from its crane lamps spilled out across the green/brown grass. He closed his eyes and breathed deep. Different air here. Heavy, thick, full. Not like the desert air from his home state.

He already missed it. One more night.

Voices rang out from the church. He opened his eyes and walked further out into the dark for one last feel.

Roll mouse over slideshow for controls or to visit gallery.

-Alex who would like the thank the good guys from Trouts, Shane Mayfield, Bobby, Brian Carter, Foster Creppel, Frank, and the crew from Woodland Plantation.

Just like Alex, I too can be a winner

2012-01-22T21:25:00.001-07:00

My post to Field and Stream, Has won me a "Little Red Fly Fishing Book" due to my non-fear of self exposure!

And this may hurt your eyes.

-Kyle

more teasage

2012-01-18T23:11:00.001-07:00

Because I didn't do shit today, you will just have to wait longer. But here is a little something to tide you over.

You can also look at this.

-A

soon: a post.

2012-01-17T22:04:00.001-07:00

-A

BRING THE PAIN!

2012-01-16T17:46:00.003-07:00

I know little of hunting, let alone Bow Hunting.

I know your basics;

-Be quiet
-Use your safety
-Bring Ammo
-Don't shoot your buddy
-Don't hunt with Cheney.

Rusty Ulmer (my soon to be father in law), along with his brother Randy, are both very well known bow hunters. Rusty, after many years of bow hunting has developed a new broad head that will be taking the market by storm. The new action from this broad head and his ideas have made this one of a kind and possibly the last way to make a fully functional broad head. Sometimes as Fly Fishermen we have to practice with the same line that we plan on fishing with for our next big trip, so why would you not practice with the same broad head? Well you wouldn't until now, now you don't have to damage your blades, or worry about not having a tuned head in your arrow due to the thoughts of a man who loves his hunting. But that is not all of it, the design to cause more damage to your target, whether the arrow gets pushed in deeper to the animal or it begins to come out this will make for a faster kill.
I cant go into too much detail, because I don't know enough about bow hunting to fully understand this new product that Rusty has decided to collaborate with the fellas at Trophy Taker .

More details please check out this video for Ulmer Edge, taken from the 2012 ATA show in Ohio.
This will explain more than I can.

It just looks meaner than hell. -Kyle

Shake the dust off.

2012-01-13T16:43:00.000-07:00

"The Red Drum (Sciaenops ocellatus), also known as Channel Bass, Redfish, Spottail Bass or simply Reds, is a game fish that is found in the Atlantic Ocean from Massachusetts to Florida and in the Gulf of Mexico from Florida to Northern Mexico.^"

Get Some.

delicious murder

2012-01-03T22:03:00.002-07:00

The white truffle hid in the cool red folds. The garlic was angry and prowling and the olive oil made traction impossible. Absolutely no footing at all. The elk was long dead and the ectomycorrhizal fruiting body was sure to follow.

There was a low hum in the dim evening light that was felt more than heard. Muffled voices mumbled intoxicated through the wall. Smoke swirled around the patio through the sliding door.

A man appeared from the living room and walked to the refrigerator and removed a bottle of beer. Another man, in a camoflage baseball hat moved over to the plastic container and loomed above. The man with the beer stepped up beside and pointed a proud finger towards the warming flesh.

"Yeah?"
"Yeah."

He took a pull from the bottle and wiped his mouth on his arm and nodded. "Yeah."

A third man stepped into the room to join the others, knowing the time was close at hand.

The truffle closed it's eyes and shuddered, remembering the screams of the tomatoes when the door was slammed on the metal cylinder, their steaming lifeless eyes as they were dumped unceremoniously into the mixing bowl. The poor, innocent potatoes; their skin sliced from their bodies one dreadful howling slice at a time till they bled-out sticky on the white counter just to be dumped half-dead into the boiling liquid. At least the broccoli had been quick; a merciful decapitation.

A browning banana on the edge of the microwave looked down with sad, beaten eyes.

There was a grinding noise and the plate was lifted from the counter. They were moving toward the smoke. The chives cried out as the lid opened and the fire rolled and howled. The yellow peppers were stubborn and resolute, their faces unreadable as they were placed one by one on the hot steel with a sickening sizzle.

The garlic panicked.

The meat fell with a slap. The pain was instant and unbearable. The truffle choked through a scream into the smoke as the man with the beer placed another bleeding slab on the grill. The coals hissed in anger and flames flashed in terrible chaos. The truffle could take no more. The last thing it saw before losing consciousness was the face of the man in the camouflage baseball hat floating in the darkening twilight.

He was smiling.

-Alex who likes his death rare, please.

HAPPY NEW YEAR!

2011-12-31T20:25:00.005-07:00

From Alex, Aaron, and I,
We wish you the best for 2012.
Now enjoy the Photo.

Santa didn't pay too close attention...

2011-12-26T22:38:00.001-07:00

Yeah.

-Alex who will be sure to post awesomeness with said awesomeness.

hey guess what

2011-12-26T20:40:00.005-07:00

Almost a month ago she said..... YES
Kyle- I don't know what is wrong with her, but I am happy

Getaway

2011-12-23T00:20:00.000-07:00

Luke sat with his back against the cold rock, his hat pulled low on his head. A Winchester repeating rifle leaned against the low rock wall to his right as he squinted his eyes against the wind and looked out over the pass.

Walter had told him it was real important that he keep a keen eye, because they would most likely be coming up through from south, so “keep your damn eye lids open, boy.” Walt had said. “I come back up’er and you catchin’ a wink im’a clean yer plow.” So Luke watched the moon-lit valley as he was told.

Movement caught his eye and adrenaline flushed through him. He looked hard. There was something moving, but Luke thought it seemed too small to be a man. Lots of night critters run around these hills. He stuck a blade of grass in his mouth and settled back into the rock and continued his vigil.

Luke was fourteen years old, and hard as any man, he reckoned. He had been with Walter for as long as he could remember. Luke’s parents had been killed when he was just a small boy and Walt had taken him to raise him best he could. He remembered little from his childhood.

They had once ridden with a hand named Francis, who had been one of Lem’s men till an unsettled dispute had sent Francis looking for work. Francis loved his Whiskey and had got full as a tic on stump one night and told Luke that Walt had killed his parents over a debt and grabbed him as cover from the sheriff’s deputies bullets on his way out the door.

Luke didn’t believe the story and had told Walt what Francis said. Walt assured Luke that it was just a tall tale, said “You should never believe words that smell somuch like whiskey, boy” and walked off with a limp. Francis never made it back to camp. Luke just assumed Walt had run him off. Luke thought he might have seen Francis’ saddle for sale in the store the following week, but he couldn’t be sure.

Luke heard a rustle over this left shoulder and turned his head. Walt’s dark outline slowly moved around the rock, cresting the hill in his direction. The shadowy figure quietly made its way to his side.

“Anythin’?”
“No sir, but this’s a dandy spot, yes sir, we’ll get the bulge on ‘em, alright.”

Walt nodded in the dark and turned away.

“Walt?”
“Yeah?”
“Is it true that Lem got the rope? I heard they came and drug ‘em right outta jail.”

Walt stopped and turned his head slightly, pulling his Stetson down against the cold. “Yeah, they lynched him.”

Luke swallowed hard and stared at his boots.

Walt turned full around, facing him.

“Don’t you worry ‘bout it, boy. In a few days we’ll shove the queer and be bendin’ our elbows someplace nice. Maybe get a couple ladies keep us company.”

Luke nodded in the dark. Walt turned back and picked his footing around the hilltop and disappeared.

Luke pulled his gloves tight. He thought about the money. He thought about ladies with skin fine as cream gravy. He thought about Lem Redfield swinging from a rope and shivered.

Luke stared out into the dark over the pass.

One hundred-and-something years later...

Luke's Wall

Aaron as usual.

Be afraid of this.

Some gotten.

-Alex who hopes Luke make it to the ladies with skin fine as cream gravy.

Busy Busy Busy.... A small overview.

2011-12-19T12:14:00.009-07:00

Lack of posts, lack of fishing, planning a wedding, and work have been keeping me from posting as much as I would like.

I have still been able to make it to the "Meth Lab Trailer Pond" but the carp still have been testing my skills. By that I found out I lack in skills.
The Bass seem to be calming down, but still aggressive during the colder times of the week.
Yesterday when I was out I was unable to catch a bass, yet I hooked into 2 carp, and caught an asshole turtle. This proves that a Crazy Charlie will catch anything.

My giant Midas Cichlid, Butt Head, died

Also I was in San Diego last month, an amazing time with friends Christian, Tessa, and their baby Sophia, and with my now Fiance Jamie, for a tattoo convention, Well it was more of a vacation for me, I spent most of my time running around San Diego fishing, and drinking. I got ahold of an old Friend of mine, Alex Anzaldua, whom I used to beat up when I was younger because his older brother is a good friend of mine.

The man Alex Anzaldua himself

Alex and I hit up a boat from Seaforth Sportfishing, and I was SUPER impressed with this company! It may not be fly fishing but every now and then I still love to grab some traditional gear or my deep sea gear and remember what got me into fishing in the first place. I have been on many charters in S.D. in the past and they were fun, but the staff and knowledge of Seaforth is second to none. Many Sheeps Head, Sculpin, Rock fish, few Ling Cod, and many other types of fish were caught. From 27 people on the boat, over 225 fish were taken home on a half day trip.
I have never had this much fun before on a San Diego charter before, 5 stars in my opinion. I would recommend this company to anyone, 100%!

The pier fishing was a load of fun, fish the waves just as you would nymphing a river with an indicator you may catch small fish as well, Like my super tiny Halibut

Top to bottom:

Turbot
Calico Bass
Lizard Fish
Halibut

Work is getting busy again, I don't want to talk about work.

So just a little info for your reading pleasure, if you like to hear what I have to say that is!

-Kyle

This, Plus This, Plus These

2011-12-12T18:07:00.003-07:00

Morgan Tattoo Rum, Plus Arizona Green Tea, makes Kyle a happy man. Also makes sea monkeys on Mars much more interesting

that other thing.

2011-12-11T16:42:00.001-07:00

A long time ago, before it was fly fishing, it was something else. A different thing that sucked the green pulpy marrow from my pants pockets.

Now, in the quasi-wintery slow AZ fishing season, that other thing has been picking on my mind a bit.

Couple new o-rings, a updated hydrostatic test and it's game on, baby.

'99 Vortex Autococker. Old school. I think there are a few prepubescent, ego-laden young hot shots that need a fresh coat.

Back players unite. One case one kill. Get some.

-Alex who is reminiscing about the lovely smell of polyethylene glycol in the morning.

tasty flesh

2011-12-05T22:56:00.001-07:00

-Alex who knows to the victor's kin goes a small percentage of the spoils.

I feel much better about myself

2011-12-04T19:48:00.001-07:00

Stick to fishing,

Put down the snack cake,

Eat a salad every now and then,

Don't be a dumb ass.

got some bigguns up'er on the rez.

2011-11-30T22:25:00.001-07:00

Chris Williams Trappers Den Taxidermy - Lakeside, AZ.

For the low low price of $18,000 dollars you too could have the chance to kill a world record elk on the beautiful White Mountain Apache Indian Reservation. And it will only cost you an extra $3,000 if you shoot anything over 375 B&C.

...yeah.

sometimes

2011-11-28T20:59:00.001-07:00

Sometimes you go to the cold mountain lakes.

Sometimes there is a guy that you didn't know you kinda knew, but not really, fishing from the dock.

Sometimes he hooks a nice fish.

Sometimes you take a photo.

-Alex who is embarrassed that he forgot to reset the exposure compensation on his camera... amateur move, bro.

mary had a little lamb

2011-11-24T22:44:00.001-07:00

... and it was so good she had a little more.

-Alex who is painfully thankful.

el salamander

2011-11-12T21:53:00.001-07:00

Four parts part Corona or Corona Light
One part Jim Beam

Get some.

-Alex who knows you will love the deliciousness.
-Josh who has the best drinking crazy-eye in the business.

Aaron pensils out DWD 4.0

2011-11-10T00:44:00.001-07:00

-Alex for Aaron who took like three hours to finish the shading on her upper lip.

Part 2 - How to win accidently and fail properly

2011-11-06T17:27:00.000-07:00

The bartender was ignoring everything but the bro at the end of the pine and the slot machine wined as it ingested the only dollar I had in my wallet.

I am not really a gambler. Not with money, anyways. I have always found it strange to take something that I have, that's mine, in my possession, and give it away to pull a handle or push a button or take a busting hit.

But there was something about this machine, this dollar...

Fishing is my favorite gamble. Incalculable time, effort, money, mental anguish, preparatory inadequacies of the mind and muscle born of a desire for just a sample.

Smoking dreams down to the filter with a blistered finger and a hat full of rain.

...so wheels spun and the machine spit out a ticket that was within forty cents of the calculated dollar amount of gas and food for the trip.

Affirmation printed in black and blue ink, handed to the congratulating smile behind the counter, and counted out in faded twenty-dollar bills.

The new york steak wasn't bad either.

Them Damn Fishes

The storm clouds were screaming silently low, just out of reach and across the treetops. There is always something disconcerting about clouds that move this fast, as if they are running from some unseen terribleness. It makes me feel like running, too.

What an innocent view from above on the whim of the wind; highs and lows commanding participation in precipitation with little rebuttal but muttered curses from those who forgot to check if they packed their rain gear as they move with rarely seen haste towards anything with a roof or overhang.

On the second day we took a run at the fishes from boats, meandering around the little sister lake of the one pictured above. There were fish, and they played with us a little under the overcast and between rains, eating swimming things, and suspended things and things that run away.

C-Daddy Get Some

The next morning, at least for me, was most of the purpose of the trip: the pre-dawn bank cruising browns of a high mountain lake which I angle most often in the summer when the big fish are lethargic. The clouds were especially in a hurry this AM, and I picked the good spot that was the most advantageous to both finding brown trout and casting in the southern wind and went to work.

I worked it hard and good and was rewarded with only a few small but angry rainbows and a couple seconds of rod-rattling fight by something with poundage before being put back in my place. The sun came out to take a peek at the silly men playing with nature, but was quickly bored with the lack of action and went away. Mother N. scheduled a little more rain just to be a dick. Aaron caught his best fish from this particular lake. Then it was time to leave.

Aaron the Proud captor.

-Alex who has heard that the water has cooled down since and the browns are on and is trying really hard not to think about it.

Halloween bringin' it.

2011-10-31T23:26:00.000-07:00

-Alex who has a hundred points and a gold star for the person (besides FGFF crew) who can tell me where the boar on the pumpkin is from.

Part 1 - suspect behavior, dirty undies and slime.

2011-10-28T15:37:00.004-07:00

Someone painted red stains on the eight-foot white cross where the nails would have been. Men sometimes sit behind the small store on a dirty picnic table. They are open when they feel like it so go away and come back later. Dogs roam feral through tall trees over the bitumen and aggregate and through the trampled field where soiled undergarments are discarded. The cows don't seem to mind.

Two men in an early 70's off-white Ford F100 bounce and rattle down the dirt path that bisects the field. They are up to something at the far end, their heads dip and bob as they slowly move across the ground, occasionally disappearing altogether behind the taller shrubs and grass as they walk back and forth from the bed of the truck.

Clouds loom ominous and move quickly over rusty playground equipment. A faded carousel slowly choked by weeds longs for small hands as a school bus rumbles out of a dirt drive across the street.

The road from here to there curves through the middle of this place and I have driven it often over the last fifteen years and never stopped. The pond is on the edge of a hill and reaches out just far enough to caress the highway and make fishy passersby wonder at sixty miles per hour if there might be something swimming around in that shallow weed-choked water.

Why did the fat guys cross the road? Because they heard there was pike on the other side.

Up Next: Bartenders with boyfriends, a new nacho recipe, and we play another exciting round of "What Important Thing Did Aaron Leave at Home This Time?"

-Alex who brings the bacon.

mountain creepy...

2011-10-26T21:42:00.000-07:00

Yeah.

-Alex who has said all he has to say about that.

I think he is doing it wrong

2011-10-26T07:24:00.004-07:00

What the hell is wrong with people?

no this is not disturbing to me, but please don't abuse your gear.

-kyle, who is really bored this morning and can't wait to get back after the carp

Always gone.

2011-10-23T01:23:00.000-07:00

When I am here, I am usually gone.

I am leaving soon so I was especially gone today.

Reality in four dimensions, so it would seem.

I was watching tv and eating a triscuit while unloading my pontoon and assembling a rod.
I was scrubbing myself in the shower and scratching my man-ness in the thin afternoon mountain sun.
I was driving to a job while paddling to a weed point, simultaneously yelling into my phone and whispering across calm waters while washing a dish in the sink and slime from my fingers in the lake.

What has already taken place will soon just have happened.

I can only hope that it will be as good as it was.

-Alex who packed his truck tomorrow and will tie some flies yesterday because he is always gone today.

Awaiting another salty trip

2011-10-19T21:11:00.004-07:00

Can't wait to get back to Shelter Island, last time I was there I caught many different fish species, this time I plan on catching more.

When I was on the pier I had some "Crazy Charlies," They did great but the bait chuckers were using Ghost Shrimp. These were like crack to the halibut, croakers, turbots, and all kinds of bass.

Now I tied me up some ghost shrimp patterns, Lets hope they work.

And here is the live fucked up looking shrimp.
-Kyle, who wishes he had Alex's photo capabilities

Hey Smitty...

2011-10-19T17:35:00.001-07:00

Remember when this happened to your fish?

via Trout's

Fall Time

2011-10-16T12:46:00.001-07:00

"People are going to be like, 'Aren’t those gourds straining your neck?' And I’m just going to thread another gourd onto my necklace without breaking their gaze and quietly reply, 'It’s fall, fuckfaces. You’re either ready to reap this freaky-assed harvest or you’re not.'"

You should read this.

Mail Meat

2011-10-15T22:43:00.000-07:00

Sweet.

Thanks, James.

-Alex who loves him some fresh meat.

End of Day

2011-10-09T23:47:00.002-07:00

Happy Monday.
Wish you were here.

-A

Fat Guy Diet? Or a proper way to die?

2011-10-05T19:14:00.005-07:00

I would not say we battle with our weight, more so enjoy it.
If you are in Tucson this is one great way to start the FGFF diet!
Ad Mr. Lindy calls it, The "2 Finger Peek-A-Boo"It is 2 grilled cheese sandwiches, filled with 2 1/3lbs. hamburgers, tomatoes, onions, onion rings, lettuce, and Lindy's special sauce for your super feeding pleasure.

And you can only get this in Tucson at Lindy's on 4th.
Great way to live..... or die

A thing you should do.

2011-10-04T22:06:00.000-07:00

Step 1: Purchase and slow cook to perfection 10lbs of beef ribs.

Step 2: Eat 10lbs of beef ribs.

Step 3: Be awesome.

-Alex who is feeling pretty awesome at the moment.

Good Days

2011-10-02T23:36:00.000-07:00

Where are the good days?

Young child,
Are they waiting in your future,
yet to be experienced
and remembered?

Old man,
Are their edges growing soft,
as they age to sepia tones
in the cellar of your mind?

Dear friend,
Yesterday is stone
Tomorrow is imagination
Today has potential.

-Alex who thinks we should go fishing.

sophistication bass

2011-09-24T15:17:00.002-07:00

Pinky out.

-A.

love and thievery

2011-09-15T22:42:00.000-07:00

Love:

Nate Taylor bringing a little sticker love to his tying bench... as well as bringing some light to:

Thievery:

Blatant.

GrümpieGills, take some advise from your forum brother gofindyourowndamnfish and gofindyourowndamnlogo.

-Alex who understands that FGFF throws out some awesome and if you can't bring your own awesome then you will just have to be less awesome.

'bout damn time

2011-09-13T01:48:00.000-07:00

I rolled into the deserted parking lot at 2:05PM, the lesbians long gone. The sun, aware of my return, had run away to hide behind the thick, daunting thunderheads. Within five minutes of my first oar stroke the deluge began.

The wind screamed at the water and powerful rain beat dirt to mud as lightening raped the canyon. The fat drops which found their mark slid harmlessly off gortex. I had come prepared for this fight, ready to wait it out and let the heavy puncher wear itself down.

After thirty-five minutes I emerged from cover with a perfection-looped frog and my game face on as the sky lowered and a medium precipitation set in for the full twelve rounds, but this time the final bell would sound the victory of the perpetual underdog.

Today, I would find, the slimy bastards were hungry. Very hungry.

'Bout damn time.

This fish jumped a foot and a half above the surface to eat my frog, which was stuck in some tules. Thanks for the assist, (and for Maxima 20lb fluorocarbon).

It's amazing the difference a little raise in water level can engender.

-Alex who loves him some rain-soaked hot frog-on-lip slammin' topwater LMB action.

sympathy fish

2011-09-10T00:20:00.000-07:00

The wind laughed through the grass and the sun convulsed as I repeatedly punched it in the back of it's stupid yellow head. The tall weeds giving me total privacy from the lesbian couple camped in the small dirt parking lot. Little golden eyes looked on in terror from the surface muck but said nothing. I leaned back and caught my breath before walking to the truck and inflating my pontoon boat.

Two hours prior I had been staring into the inky darkness of my bedroom ceiling when I had a thought: I could just go now... I blinked and felt what little potential there had been for sleep recede like a bastard wave. I got up and packed the truck.

I had planned to fish the afternoon/evening, but instead found my self standing in line at a gas station convenience store at 4:35AM listening to the weary-eyed clerk explain to the prostitute in front of me that they had no public restrooms, and she would have to wash the semen stains out of her shirt somewhere else.

I asked her if she wanted to go fishing. She said she didn't know what that meant but it would cost fifty dollars. I didn't have fifty dollars so I bought my gallon of water and left.

The morning bite should have been better. It would have been better, I am sure, if I weren't such a stubborn prick.

"Look that that frog, you little sonsabitches!" I screamed. "You should want to eat that. You should need to eat that. Look how awesomely it walks weedlessly around on the muck. What's wrong with you little slimy bastards?" They didn't seem to care and for a brief moment I thought about tying on a beadhead bugger, but my ego threw up a little in my mouth and I swallowed it back with a sip of turkey.

The morning took pitty on my pathetic face and gave me one sympathy fish which reluctantly slurped a small foam popper between the shadows and looked at me with hatred while I pushed the steel out of his lip.

The wind shit-talked through the tall trees and the sun glowed unconscious in a small clearing behind the tall weeds. I rowed back to the truck in shame.

I met an old man with a 4wt in the parking lot and lied to his face with a smile and gave him a foam popper.

-Alex who still hasn't learned his lesson.

Shelter Island... I am coming

2011-09-07T20:21:00.004-07:00

5 more days until Dad and I arrive at Shelter Island.
Downrigging of the boat during the day.
Fly fishing the evening.

More to come...

Something I think you should know...

2011-09-06T23:20:00.000-07:00

Almost all of the carp I caught in Denver were on flies tied with Kieth's Free Range dubbing.

In Rust Brown and Yellow Mustard.

Quality.

-Alex who is still trying to convince the lot that I didn't actually catch my caprs on crisco rolled in oatmeal or dog food.

Carp Slammed 2011

2011-09-03T17:26:00.000-07:00

“Carpin’ is hard.” – Michael Gracie

“This shit is easy.” – Nate Taylor

“It’s all about the beat.” – Trevor Tanner

August 28th 2011, 12:20AM
I wouldn’t say that Bruce Smithhammer and I ran from the uniformed officer in the lobby of the Hyatt hotel but we did walk fairly quickly toward the glass revolving doors with a I-don’t-know-that-guy look on our faces as Gracie retrieved the line, reel, and fly rod from the polished tile floor. The Bombay martini in the Peaks Lounge seemed to have weakened Will’s resolve, but we weren’t going to let him change his mind. You bought this ticket, my friend.

August 27th 2011, 6:30AM
The day had started out innocently enough. Wide smiles and excited eyes gathered outside the Fuel Café before being sent off to their designated waters followed closely by their handlers armed with measuring tapes and screen-door screens stapled to wooden dowels.

The morning progressed as you would expect. Some caught fish, some didn’t. The fish that were brought to hand were measured and recorded. The Reynolds/Gracie duo tag-teamed weary caprs as homeless Denverites bathed with sand near the toilet paper tree-racks just out of sight upstream. Louis Cahill stopped by. A sandal floated serenely by between Reynold’s casts under the constant ka-thunk of bridged traffic. At 11:30 we rolled back to Fuel Café for lunch and the fishermen lied and shit-talked over fried chicken, sautéed potatoes, coleslaw and rolls.

The afternoon beat is where we encountered the mohawked, face painted, spear-wielding Laotians, which rumor has it were hired by Trevor Tanner and given six chickens and a set of mildly-worn SUV tires as payment for fouling the beat. I was not able to substantiate these accusations, however Tanner did place first with Clint Packo, who probably had no idea of his partner’s alleged treachery. The investigation is ongoing.

After the fishing day had come to a conclusion, small groups gathered in the Fuel Café parking lot exchanging whispers in hushed tones of numbers and inches. The crowd quickly dispersed as Scott Wells lit a bottle rocket in Tim Romano’s pocket, diving behind cars as Romano did a there-is-something-explosive-in-my-pants dance then returned a volley of RPG fire into the crowd. One blue ExOfficio shirt was injured in the exchange but is in stable condition.

We fled the scene.

August 27th 2011, 7:00PM
The Carp Slam party was held in a conspicuously white tent erected in confluence park on the bank of the South Platte. Servers walked with plates of appetizer-esque edibles, as a local band played moderately-acceptable covers from better known musicians. The bar was open, and so was everybody there. Winners were crowned, and congratulated. There were no losers. We drank and ate and soon it was time to move on as the real party-people walked from the tent and over the river lead by the venerable Will Himself.

A few minutes later we ducked into a doorway where Douchey McDoucheington, the mustachioed line-cook at the bar on Fifteenth and Platte, made it clear that the likes of us were not welcome to hang around the hallway by the bathroom, and if we should choose to stay in the establishment “we do accept cash as well as credit cards,” he informed us and looked pointedly toward the dining area.

Will only stopped here so that he could take a piss and to his dismay upon exiting the bathroom he saw that the growing band of Carp Slam post-partiers had taken up residence at a small table near the rear and already ordered a round of “the cheapest whiskey you have.”

He sat reluctantly as the waitress, who already looked like she was fed up with our shit, approached the table to bring the round of shots.

The group, fueled by bacon-wrapped jalapenos, lamb skewers with avocado cream sauce, bacon-wrapped shrimp and the open beer-and-wine-bar and consisting of Scott Wells and his wife, Bruce Smithhammer, Michael Gracie, Nate Taylor, Trevor Tanner, Trevor Tanner’s first-place Carp Slam trophy, Sabrina of shelovesflyfishingandpunchingnatetaylor.com, her friend, and myself were now thoroughly planted and Will was forced to take a seat. Douchey McDoucheington, the mustachioed line-cook spied on us from around the corner. We drank and annoyed everybody but ourselves.

Some time later, after Nate was intercepted on his way to the bar by the mustachioed line-cook and told “you have a waitress and she will take your drink order”, it was time to leave. Will rose and pointed a finger at Smithhammer and I and proclaimed “In five we are out of here,” and walked toward the restroom. Bruce and I looked at each other with a raised eyebrow. He came back and our trio silently made our way to the front door into the warm night.

Minutes later the cab pulled away we stood on the sidewalk across from a side entrance to the Hyatt Regency. We made our way across the street, weaving between Denver’s seemingly ever present construction cones and blinking barriers. Smithhammer, fed up with the obstacles took it upon himself to kick the newly-poured curb, sending out an explosion of concrete that rained down around Will and I forcing us to run for cover inside the hotel. The Hammer is hardcore like that.

As we approached the elevators Will Himself’s easy going demeanor took on an air of seriousness. He pushed the “up” button and turned to his traveling companions. “Okay, in order to pull this off, we have to walk in there like we own the fucker. Got it?” Apparently Bruce and I did because we nodded and slid into the waiting elevator where we met a European magician who was time traveling to the 22nd floor. We didn’t need magic where we were going so Will pushed the button next to the little number twenty-seven and the steel and wood box quickly accelerated into the sky.

The door dinged open and we flew out into the Peaks Lounge like we owned the fucker. Around the marble pillars, past the high-rollers and professional escorts, the business travelers and the first-class fliers we marched. Eyes forward and chins out, all balls and bluster we moved to a leather couch located in prime corner territory where we sat like important people with important things to discuss and important drinks to drink. Bombay, Bombay, Bombay Sapphire with a side of blue cheese olives sealed the deal. We were in. We munched delicious potpourri and sipped our drinks and resumed our unimportance and spoke of unimportant things and drank our unimportant drinks. The view was magnificent and I felt like a man who should have had it all.

Will sipped his martini and leaned forward conspiratorially. “One drink, then we move on.”

One drink proved almost too much. Bruce was on his phone. Gracie was in the lobby and we had to go. I shook Will off the couch and we wove out of the lounge with much more chalance than our entrance. My camera bounced heavily at my side. My flip-flops rang like snare drums. I felt dirty. I knew I didn’t belong but I would never show it to these swine. Nobody seemed to notice.

Gracie, as advertised, was in the lobby with last-years slam champ Phil Beranto and was still carrying his pirate’s booty of second-place prizes which for some unknown reason the pair began throwing in our general direction, crashing loudly about our feet leading to the unneeded attention of the stone-faced officer stationed near the check-in desk and our speedy exit.

Once outside, we forced our way into another cab as Will flopped his head back and proclaimed “the Diamond Cabaret!”

The van pulled quickly away from the Peaks Lounge full of important people and the annoyed night officer in the lobby.

The manager was a nice man with a bald head, rimless glasses and a dark blue suit that was cut too large. He took our things and handed me a card, promising that he would keep them safe in the office.
First in line, I walked to the counter and smiled at the woman who had a great face but lacked the body of a dancer so was relegated to running the credit card machine. She ran my visa and reached out with petit hands, placing a neon-green bracelet around my wrist. Once I had been legitimated, I turned around. Will was gone.

I pushed out the door. He was not outside. I worked my way back inside, flashing my bracelet at the gorilla doorman and I gathered Bruce for the hunt. We walked into the dark club and I pushed a pair of breasts out of my way and scanned the crowd. There he was. I walked over and grabbed his wrists and held them up into the flashing light. No bracelet. Will Himself was operating in gentleman’s club ninja mode.

He lips stretched into a evil, lopsided grin and quickly disappeared again in a poof of glitter. Gone. Bruce, Gracie, Phil and myself found a chair and lounged like pros. Phil was distraught that we had chosen to sit away from the dance-tables and told us so numerous times as Smithhammer and I ordered a couple absurdly expensive beers. We watched.

The end was near. I could feel it in the air. The Ninja was gone, the post-post-post-post party atmosphere was thinning and I was finding it hard to concentrate. Gracie, who until this point had been sitting docilely in the light tan upholstered chair, sprang to his feet and declared that he was leaving and ran toward the exit, punching a bro in the side of the head who was waving dollar bills at a pair of C-cups on his way. I looked at Bruce. We nodded in agreement and followed in Gracie’s wake.

We gathered out gear.
We went home.
We went to Taco Bell.
We went home again.
We ate tacos and supreme burritos.

Morning came and Bruce boarded a plane for Idaho, Gracie worked on his computer and I went fishing.

The Carp Slam was over and all was good and right in the world.

-Alex who already misses the toxicity of the DSP.

(If you are viewing this post in a feed reader, you are probably missing the awesome slideshow click here)

More reportage:
The Drake
Fly Carpin'
Dirtbag Fly Fishing
Michael Gracie
Carp Slam Website

No tying instructions necessary

2011-09-02T08:49:00.000-07:00

I hate waking up early except for when I'm fishing, having drank two cups of coffee to shake off the previous night's rum and being in an early morning/fishing frame of mind. I decided to park my ass in front of the vise instead of going back to bead. The fly I hold in my hand and pretend to offer my eighty-five pound land manatee of a bulldog is a dog food pattern I made with some foam and a generic size 6 hook. I got the idea while carp fishing with Kyle, he'd throw out a handful of dry dog food and then cast into the same area, and soon the carp were rolling on the very un-natural dog food hatch, but neither of us had a fly that was close enough to match the "hatch" so here it is. As for those who would make the argument that chumming and fly fishing should never be mixed, you are already breaking tradition by fishing for carp, and I don't know about you, but when I break something, I like to break the shit out of it. It's a side effect of growing up listening to Gwar and Crowbar.

Aaron, who is sleep deprived and killing time.

Mustard Moustache Ride.

2011-08-31T13:47:00.000-07:00

Nate Taylor doesn't have a name for this pattern. Now he does.

I am home from Denver. Complete nonsense to follow.

Hobo Beer

2011-08-24T18:27:00.002-07:00

My recent unemployment "retirement" as I like to refer to it has lead me to try and find cheaper, more efficient ways to go about life and feel as normal as I can. I can live off dollar store hotdogs and ramen forever, and I'm not super picky about my beer until I stumbled into this one. I shoulda known $2.99 for a six pack was too good to be true. It's called Big Flats Lager. A new "premium" Walgreens brand beer. Long story short, I believe bitter beer face really does exist.
I was raised never to waist anything though, so I will be drinking it ice cold with a funnel. Man I hope I get a job soon.

Aaron-Who as Alex likes to say, Is "drowning some time"

A preview of things to come...

2011-08-21T01:16:00.000-07:00

Soon...

-Alex who bought new pants just for the occasion.

Knucklehead

2011-08-16T13:17:00.002-07:00

It doesn't matter how much you want there to be big bass which reside in the weeds near the bank and eat frogs. What you want doesn't mean squat and when you watch a 5 pounder follow the eight incher that ate a chernobyl ant up to the boat it makes you feel a little silly upon hindsight. Just take another sip of whiskey and keep throwing your frogs on that tarpon rod you optimistic knucklehead. Maybe today will be your day.

Dang it!

2011-08-10T23:32:00.004-07:00

Fat guy Aaron here with a sad message for the all you fish lovers out there. Both Peacock bass in my F.G.F.F. research tank have randomly died. I feel terrible I watched them more than tv and I fed them better than I feed myself. They were fun, entertaining fish and I will miss them. Rest in Peace buddies.

-Aaron who is contemplating where to bury $150 worth of beautifully colored Brazilian fertilizer. At least my red tail catfish are alright.

There are fishing trailers...

2011-08-09T19:34:00.002-07:00

...and then there are fishing trailers.

GEOFISH TRAILER 3min from MOTIV FISHING on Vimeo.

This. Looks. Awesome.

Without the bubble, it would be less cool.

2011-08-01T18:32:00.001-07:00

-Alex who reminds you to not forget the camera.

Fiesty

2011-07-30T23:04:00.001-07:00

...ate the bloody midge.

you are not allowed to complain...

2011-07-29T19:53:00.001-07:00

...if you didn't pinch the barb.

-Alex who reminds you to yank quickly.

crooked

2011-07-27T21:10:00.003-07:00

There are no more pine trees. There are no more lakes or streams. There are no more rods in my truck and fly boxes in my pockets.

The clothes that I am wearing are clean. There isn't any dirt under my nails or dried slime on my pants. All the chairs are straight.

I will probably wake up tomorrow before the sun rises with anticipation, only to roll over slightly depressed.

At least nobody robbed my house.

-Alex who won't know what to do with himself for at least another twenty-four hours.

Mosquitoes.... natures douchebag

2011-07-17T15:04:00.000-07:00

If you've never been to Arizona you would just think its too dry to have any sort of mosquito problem. Don't kid yourself, those dick-nosed dracula bugs can flourish anywhere. In the white trash neighbor's tire collection, in the over watered neighbor's lawn, possibly in the spot my dogs urinate on to mark their territory, anywhere it's damp basically. So what do you do about it? If you're anything like me chemicals piss you off and you hate the smell of raid and that crap gets you sicker than the bugs. Thinking about a citronella candle? Don't, bears love the smell and taste. I won't even start on deet. I remember years ago I worked at Wal-Mart in the sporting goods department and a bottle of OFF spilled on the shelf and ate the powder coating "off" of the shelf, clean down to bare metal. You're suppose to put that on your skin, screw you chemical company. I can't remember how he stumbled upon the information I'm about to share with you but recently my dad found out if you put Listerine in a spray bottle and spray it in a problem area or on yourself it completely drives them away for a whole day. It not only repels those blood sucking bastards but you will smell nice and fresh and as we all know that's not common for fly fishermen in the field.

Fat guy Aaron who is sick of Chuck Norris jokes but think it's totally appropriate to let you know he's totally going Chuck Norris on some 'squitos.

GTFO

2011-07-13T23:55:00.001-07:00

Beaming with all the hopes and desires of American youth, he set forth as a leader of sorts. Just what sorts, it is impossible to say at this time.

But he had the imaginary support he needed to venture beyond the small environment he'd come to know as his home town.

Friends thought him foolish and felt free to frequently tell him so. Deep down they all felt envy. Envious that he could muster, where they could not, the courage that was necessary to embark beyond the notion that survival was based upon the ability to rise at 7AM five days a week. - Les Claypool

It is too damn hot for a penguin to just be walkin' around.

Time to get out of here.

-Alex who hasn't smelled a wader fart in far too long.

sweet tie from DeadDrift

2011-07-12T13:33:00.000-07:00

Click the image to watch.

Large Talons

2011-07-08T22:26:00.002-07:00

Not Particularly.

But Osprey's? Oh yeah they do and the guys at The Caddis Fly got to meet one up close. Lucky.

-Alex who applauds the rescue and thinks it was a good idea they called in a professional.

First Thoughts

2011-07-08T01:02:00.001-07:00

Thought number one. Not in love, but working on it. The profile from below is not quite right and I need some red ball eyes or something to get the head shape better.

Eh, something will eat it.

Arizona Cicadidae

2011-07-06T22:36:00.007-07:00

For those of you looking to tie up some cicada patterns.

Get to it.

-Alex who is gathering up wings to glue on...

Manly behaviour

2011-07-04T20:48:00.002-07:00

How it's done.

Skirt steak, lamb chops, sweet potatoes, shrimp, asparagus. All on the grill. All ready to plate at the same time.

That's pro.

Happy 4th.

-Alex who learned from the best.

Think Hard.

2011-06-29T11:36:00.001-07:00

-Alex who knows it has been far too long since he served up some 'toon goodness.

I always knew that dude from Krull was a sicko.

2011-06-28T14:33:00.004-07:00


cyclops bull shark... via chum.

beastialitor?

-Alex who will be trying to figure out how to work in a "do you want to see my one-eyed bull shark fetus?" at the bar tonight.

It's more awesomer than what you had for dinner.

2011-06-25T23:42:00.002-07:00

-Alex who knows that you know he is right.

free high

2011-06-22T18:11:00.004-07:00

I have never liked painting. I guess I don't really have the patience for it. But I do believe that things worth doing are worth not fucking up, so you might as well do it the right way.

Aircraft Paint Remover is not as special as it sounds, especially since it says not to use it on aircraft. I hate removing paint. I detest the way it never comes out of the cracks in the welds.

Painting bare aluminum is a pain in the ass. But since the factory paint was falling off the standing platform on the used pontoon I recently bought I felt obligated to do something about it before I owned it long enough not to care. Plus that damned thing is slick as hell under slip-on rubber shoes and a little preventative care is never a bad thing.

Also, while I sit here watching the paint dry... what do think about these FB comment boxes?

half empty

2011-06-17T20:54:00.003-07:00

The splinters of ice in the whisky clinked lightly in the bottom of his glass as he stood in the dark and stared out the small dusty window to the front yard. Concrete, weeds and tan dirt stared back. The driveway needed to be swept.

A pealing-white van with a dent slowly clanked by as a few bits of refuse caught the breeze scratched their way across the carport. He took a sip from his glass and picked at a mosquito bite on his knuckle. He couldn’t remember the last time it rained and wondered where the little fuckers were breeding. A stack of old tires near a sprinkler, a neglected fountain, something, somewhere nearby, over the wall or across the alley. Standard blue collared yard shit- collected, stored, ignored by someone too thick to know that their trash was cultivating annoyance. He poured the remaining contents of the tumbler into his mouth and scratched his knuckle against the seam of his pant leg.

He thought about how inefficiently he used dental floss and how blind people differentiate the denomination of paper money. He ran his eyes along the painted grain of the window trimming and wondered where the tree had been felled that produced it. He thought about the empty glass, the bottle on the counter, and having nothing to do at 1:45pm on a Thursday.

He felt the stretch of his shirt, the push of the ground and the condensation evaporating from his finger tips and for the briefest of moments felt the clarity of complete indifference.

He shifted his weight and heard something crinkle under his flipflop. He looked down, slowly bent and picked up the faded note and held it to the light:

Eggplant
olive oil
balsamic
garlic
basil
oregano
thyme
p chops
chipotle mar.

It was written in his hand but he didn’t remember the meal. He crumpled the list, tossed it at the trash can and missed.

He thought about his bucket of change; nickels, quarters, dimes and pennies - Maybe enough for a thousand miles of road if he rolled it himself. Eight hundred, if he dumped it in that green machine at Food City.

Go north, a small voice whispered in the cockles of his subconscious. It wasn't enough and he knew it. Not enough to get where he wanted to go.

The shards of ice tinked in the bottom of his empty glass.

He stared out the small dusty window to the front yard.

The driveway needed to be swept.

Our state is on fire... can we come fish yours?

2011-06-07T21:16:00.003-07:00

Everything, it seems, is burning in Arizona.

In northern AZ strong winds push the Wallow fire as it chews through the forests and prairies of the White Mountains. Belching smoke and ash and defecating destruction, it has consuming over 300,000 acres so far making it the second largest fire in AZ history. As of four hours ago it was 0% contained.

Out east the Horseshoe Two fire burns around Silver Peak. 106,000 acres. 50% contained.

To the southeast crews are cleaning up the last bits of the Arlene fire. 10,000 acres. 70% contained.

Down south the Murphy Fire wanders around the hills and rough peaks just east of Arivaca Lake, a sneaky bastard. 50,000 acres. 15% contained.

Well, what's a fat guy to do? Go fishing, of course.

So that's what I did; took a drive down south with my father to check out the smoke and try for some topwater bass action before the whole state burns down.

The Murphy Fire.

A timeout for the vices.

Sometimes you just have to hand the camera off... Jonathan Landeen photo.

The late morning was warm and relatively calm, the southwestern wind pushing the smoke away from the water and making the fire an afterthought.

Then the cavalry showed up and I put away the 8wt and rowed for a closer look.

Hold on to your hat.

The sky crane's came again and again to fill their holds and the winds grew stronger throughout the afternoon. Needless to say it made concentrating on a soft underhand cast to the bank a little difficult. It was time to head out.

If I knew then what I know now, I might have stayed a little longer.

At noon this Thursday the US Forest Service will be closing the Coronado National Forest for an undetermined amount of time, until "significant moisture is received to reduce the wildfire threat to manageable levels."

Parker Canyon Lake? No, you can't go there.
Avivaca for some bass goodness? Nope.
Pena Blanca? No, that place got torched anyways.
Pataginia? Lol. try again.
Fry Mesa? No.
Riggs? No.

Dammit.

So, our state is on fire... can we come fish yours?

-Alex who is working on his rain dance, but is worried he is too white to impress anyone.

patience

2011-06-05T22:28:00.001-07:00

Step 1
Abide, anticipate, await, bide, bide one's time, cool it, dally, delay, expect, fill time, foresee, hang around, hang onto your hat, hang out, hold back, hold everything, hold on, hold the phone, hole up, keep shirt on, lie low, look for, look forward to, mark time, put on hold, remain, sit tight, stall, stand by, stay, stay up for, stick around, sweat it, tarry.

Step 2
Anticipate, bide, lie in wait, expect, pause, remain, rest, sojourn, stay, stick around, linger.

Step 3
Ambuscade, assail, assault, box in, bushwhack, decoy, dry gulch, ensnare, entrap, hem in, hide, jump, lay for, lurk, set trap, surprise, surround, trap, wait, hook, net.

Step one complete.

Wrinkleneck 22 and the most epic post in FGFF history.

2011-05-29T20:07:00.006-07:00

WEDNESDAY, MAY 18

The day had started innocently enough and a medium-fat rain precipitated as the car tent was erected. At the time I appreciated the weather and contribute the unusual number of people willing to help assemble the canopy to an urge to mooch a dry spot while at the same time receiving a gold star for helping.

Wet wood was gathered and split, and the fire was lit with the help of some purloined generator gasoline which resulted in only minor casualties including but not limited to a few shoelace fuzzies and one nalgene bottle worth of hose water.

The afternoon wandered off but the clouds loitered. The intermittent rain became mixed with enough sleet and hail to harass the burning pine in the washtub fireplace, sizzling and pinging on the coated steel.

I know, I know... It went out.

Helpers.

Dinner was carried from the pop-up kitchen to the table at 6pm.

Lasagna with made-from-scratch noodles, caramelized fennel and homemade focaccia piled on our plates as rain-gear clad strays lurked nearby, hoping for a nod to the table for a scrap. Looking back it was the best dinner of the weekend. Thank you, Mr. Bryant.

The day darkened. The lager went down. The sky fell.

With the sun set on the first day I retired around 10pm. By midnight all was quiet.

Or so I thought.

THURSDAY, MAY 19 – DAY ONE

I awoke as the day was breaking on Thursday with a strange feeling that the walls were closing in. I couldn’t put my finger on it, until I stretched out my arms and did.

The light was cool and void of color, lacking the directionality that typically accompanies anything less than light cloud cover. The time was undeterminable, but I could hear no movement or voices outside the trailer leading me to believe that it was still early.

I rolled in my sleeping bag and bumped my hand over the canvas that lay overhead, knocking off a few droplets of cold condensation that dripped down my arm. The icy cold water startled me and I looked up to where the drops had fallen. Something was wrong. The ceiling was low. Very low. I brought my palm to the material with a thunk. It was heavy and dark, lacking the cool glow that was leaking in through the walls of the pull-out bed.

I pushed gently upward and felt the weight, hearing a low crunching sound as I lifted. It took a moment for my desert-raised brain to understand what had happened.

Snow.

Now awake, I could hear it ticking lightly against the plastic windows of the camper and as much as my body protested leaving the warmth of the sleeping bag I had to take a look.

I slipped out of the bag and into a pair of long johns. The cold of the floor bit into my toes as I stepped to the door and peaked out into whiteness.

Damn. I started lacing my boots.

They slowly stirred, emerging from tents and campers, congregating in small groups around camp sharing stories of broken tarps and tent-poll inadequacies while the coffee percolated and my father’s “best I ever made” corn beef hash sizzled, patiently waiting for an egg to poach.

cheating.

"Hello, Mr. Hooper!"

It was pure and clean and beautiful.

For a moment.

By late morning the snow began turning to slush and each new arrival ground the wet soil into the hill. White was replaced with brown as the virgin powder was raped by each tire track and footfall. Rubber and gore-tex became the new currency and the have-nots stared in longing. It was going to be a dirty day.

The weather continued. The snow morphed into county-fair-stuffed-animal-foam-like balls that bounced and flopped around the dirty ground before melting. The sun made a few brief guest appearance as a few pushed out in their inflatables to wet an early line.

baiters...

Inadequate.

While Thursday is the first day of the event, when the majority of the participants arrive, it’s really like the on deck circle for the weekend. The caterer, having dropped off their equipment trailers the previous afternoon, return to set up the chow tent and prepare for serving dinner.

All day trucks and trailers roll down the hill toward Cyclone lake, jockeying for the best positions around camp. Those who have found their place (some by choice, others becoming stuck and deciding not to fight it) lazily make their way to the check-in tent to legitimize their arrival and collect their raffle tickets.

The day’s lunch, cooked and donated by my father consisted of brisket, sautéed cabbage, beans in tortillas topped with pico de gallo, shredded cheese, jalapenos and salsa.

Shortly after lunch Kyle and Aaron arrived. The weather lightened into the afternoon, the sun burning through the thinner clouds as drinks were drunk, beers swilled, shots slammed, lines cleaned and leaders pulled straight.

Kyle's 2WD abstract art.

Stuckness...

Fried chicken for dinner. Mud for desert.

It had begun.

FRIDAY, MAY 20 – WILEY’S BIG FISH FRIDAY

The rules are simple- catch a big god damn fish. A lunker. A pig. The awards are separated into bait/lure and fly categories.

You can leave as early as you want, and fish anywhere in the mountains as long as you get your fish back to the scale by 6pm.

I woke just in time for breakfast and wandered down for an ass-kicking gut-bumb omelet, bacon, biscuits and gravy and a waffle. Eddie and the catering crew are amazing and I have to say that I find their breakfasts to be the best thing they put on the table.

After stuffing our faces and a well timed assault on the porta-shitters the fat guys assembled to discuss the days plans.

Aaron decided to remain at Cyclone and try his luck finding a holdover, and Kyle and I decided to head over to Hawley lake just a few minutes away. I have been fishing this lake for nearly 15 years and I figured that if I was going to get lucky and find a pig it was going to be at Hawley, and it was going to be a brown.

We started at the south end of the lake by the boat docks. There is a deep hole in the south cove and the area is known for very good ice-off brown fishing as they chase crawdads into the shallows and even though we are a month late in the season I thought I may be able to bring something up out of the depths.

After a couple hours with only one big missed hit I decided that it was time to head back for some chicken fried steak and a rethink.

In the afternoon Kyle and I headed back to Hawley to hit the far north end. There is a deep channel that runs perpendicular to the dam that quickly rises to shallows that are fantastic for evening brown action. I parked near the dam and left Kyle casting on the shore as I drifted across the deep water towards the shallow point that splits the north shore, pointing like a finger towards the Island.

A few passes brought some nice bows to hand, but nothing like what I figured I would need to bring the trophy home. The depth is difficult to predict and the rocky/tree garden bottom stole a few flies before I made it to the point.

I drifted and casted. Snag. Took a sip of Makers. Drifted and casted. Snag. Took a sip of Makers.

The afternoon rolled on.

On my way around the point, just about even with the island I jerked the rod a few times to impart some swimming movement to my crawdad-colored leach and on the last jerk felt a solid object on the end of the line. Assuming that it was another snag I lifted the rod quickly in an attempt to dislodge the fly. The weight stayed, but fought back.

Before I could grab the line for a strip the water exploded out in front of me as the large fish breached and landed with a ka-sploosh.

The fish ran and I fought the pull as I kicked towards the shore, grabbing the radio from my pack and yelling, “Kyle! Come get me KNOW.”

I could see the shadow of the fish, and I knew it was a potential winner and I kicked to the point. The problem was I ended up kicking directly to the tip of the peninsula and beached the pontoon on a large rock about 15 feet from shore.

Thinking that I was at closer than I was I began to slip out of the seat but as I looked down I noticed that it was much deeper than I thought and If I stepped out of the pontoon there was a very good chance that I would never be able to get my ass back in the seat and would end up swimming my fish back to shore. With one hand on the rod and the other on the pontoon frame I was able to get one good kick before the boat slid off the rock and headed back out into the water. The pontoon creaked in complaint and rocked heavily as my weight shifted back into the chair.

Free of the rock, I spun my head briefly to see where I needed to go and happened to catch a glimpse of a silver blur through the trees as Kyle hammered down in the Tahoe preparing for fish extraction. I rounded the point and netted the trout just as my fins hit bottom..

Kyle appeared moments later with the Rubbermaid tub in hand. We filled the tub halfway with water and gently placed the fish into the receptacle then carried the ten gallons of water and fish up to the truck.

A quick pack job, securing the pontoon to the roof rack and we were on our way back to camp, water splashing from the less than perfect seal of the 33-gallon container at every bump.

The Neckers surrounded the weigh-in tent as the tub was lifted from the back and brought to the scale. I removed the top and quickly removed the fly from the brown’s mouth and placed the fish on the scale- 43.5oz. Winner? Probably but I would have to wait to know for sure.

The fish was placed back into the tub and successfully released into Cyclone lake.

Friday night, after prime rib dinner and a SAGE fly rod and reel combo card raffle, brought about the start of the poker tournament.

Almost forty Neckers, including our resident card shark Kyle, sat to test their luck at Texas hold ‘em. At 830 the first card was dealt.

Two and a half hours and some ESPN-worthy action later it was down to the final three: Kyle, our committee Chairman Paul, and two-year attending Wrinklenecker Tony Martin, who was so sloshed he couldn’t even deal the cards and had to get assistance from onlookers to deal and count chips.

Kyle, went all in on a few strong hands and cut down Paul’s chip lead, eventually knocking him out but was apparently unable to read drunk face of Tony and at 11:20 was taken down, receiving a second place finish.
Those who were still interested in some action found their way back to my father’s car tent for the afterhours “Gentleman’s game.”

Drinks were drunk, beers swilled, shots slammed.

Bed called a few times, but just ended up leaving a voicemail.

SATURDAY, MAY 21 – TEAM EVENT

I stumbled out of the trailer into the oppressive early morning sun and stomped my boots through the drying mud pit towards the chow tent. The bloody mary bar was positioned cheerfully out front, a shining beacon to the alcoholic nature of the camps inhabitants. Hugh “Why are my pants down” Rupprecht had taken over the bar-back duties and his smiling face was almost too much to handle so early in the morning.

I had told myself on the short trek down the hill that I would forego the debilitating omelet and focus on a more lean-and-mean morning meal but as soon as I stepped under the ramada and heard those eggs sizzling and the scent of crispy bacon tickled my olfactory my resolve melted. Damn Carl and his mad mirror grill skills.

Carl is the man.

Fifteen minutes later, after doing horrible and unnatural things to the porta-shitter I wandered around till I found the crew. This time we all decided that Hawley was the place to be and began packing the boats.
Forty five minutes later the fat guys were fishing, working the same runs that had produced the best the previous afternoon.

For seven hours we worked the lanes, the shallows and the depths culling the live wells in real time as we went.

Casting. Kicking. Crawdads, leaches, buggers, muddlers twitched in the depths, stirred up mud - enticing, attracting, infuriating.

Lunch of grilled rubens was skipped for Makers, Jager and warm Coors on the water. The rod was an extension of my arm and the line like a golden whisper swung, a machinegun metronome loaded with full metal jacket copper plated hope.

At one point near the end of the afternoon I actually thought I caught a few bars of Eye of the Tiger drifting on the warm breeze. Maybe it was my imagination. Maybe it was the Jager. It’s difficult to say.

Midafternoon brought more boats to the north shore, a few teams looking for some luck. I paddled over to fellow Necker Scott Hotchkiss and bartered a beer for some fly info.

I checked my watch; just about time to catch that money fish and go home. Enough checking, enough guessing at lengths and weights. I paddled out to the point and put on my favorite streamer: one pass, two passes, three passes, nothing.

On the home stretch, in the orange evening sun and around the point just into the eastern cove it hit. Good tug. Good shake. A short zing as the line pulled towards deeper water. Another brown, a better fish and the best of the day. The last chance fish slid into the net but I fumbled him. I missed the handoff and watched the sleek beauty slowly fin away. I slugged the last bit of whiskey from my flask and paddled toward the truck.

The final three fish were picked, packed, weighed and released. As I walked from the weigh-in tent I heard a whisper from over my shoulder, “wow, look at that… by an ounce and a half.”

It didn’t inspire confidence.

I ate jalapeno poppers and mini-chimis and tried not to think about it.

Hat.

Pork Chop dinner preceded the live auctions and trophy presentation.

Big Fish Trophy. Winning!

FGFF in Second place Fly Division

Second place Bait and Lure division

First place Bait and Lure Division

First Place Fly Division and overall winners... Good job dad. (Middle)

So my brown was big enough (by over a pound) to take the Big Fist Trophy.

We ended up coming up second in the Fly Fishing Team event, pushed out by my father's team. Dad taking back the trophy from me and keeping me from winning first place four years in a row... better that than Weinstein winning, for sure.

SUNDAY MAY 22 – HOME

With the boats packed, the pop-ups popped down and final handshakes shook and well-wishes wished we departed. The now-dry road pushing up a farewell plume of light tan dust behind the truck.

When I hit the pavement I knew it was over.

The Great Southwestern Wrinkleneck Invitational--in its 22 year raising thousands of dollars for the Arizona Sportsman’s Fund to help send underprivileged kids to camp--came to an end.

Until next year, Gentlemen.

-Alex who is coming back for the flag next year, dad.

If you have read this entire account, I applaud your amount of free time. Don’t let your boss know, if you are unfortunate enough to have one. Me? I fired the bastard.

shit happened.

2011-05-24T09:16:00.000-07:00

Oh boy.

Stay tuned.

go time

2011-05-17T19:44:00.000-07:00

It's here. Again. And I am ready. Have been ready, it feels, for too long.

There is nothing worse than idle anticipation, having already done the shopping and packed the truck days before.

For the last 48 hours I have been wandering around aimlessly between the tying bench, the refrigerator and the gear room searching for anything to keep my eyes off the clock.

Tie some gaps in the trout boxes, make a drink, loiter in the yard, scratch myself, rearrange the contents of my bag. Repeat.

But now the time has come, my friends. The 22nd Annual Wrinkleneck Tournament is here and I am headed out tomorrow as early as I can stand, Kyle and Aaron heading out a little later in the day.

Time for Team Fat Guys to once again bring the pain.

-Alex who plans on bringing home the 1st place trophy again just to be a dick.

screams and rending of paper

2011-05-10T00:55:00.001-07:00

The dull thump of the mailbox lid generally evokes feelings of less-than-excitement. Even though I have a strange OCD about checking the box every time I walk by I am a firm believer that no-news-is-good-news so today when I heard the mailman's indifference in the yard I can't say I jumped out of my chair.

In fact I forgot all about the mail and it was hours later before a rumble in my gut lead me out of the house and into the carport to quest for sustenance. That's when I found it.

And it was good.

"This entire collection is my sermon on colors and textures, imbued with everything I hold sacred." - K. Barton

Learn Yourself.

Get some.

-Alex who is impressed with the size of Mr. Barton's package and that which was contained within.

Moms.................

2011-05-08T17:57:00.002-07:00

For every mom where ever she may be,
Happy Mother's Day to you all.

Kyle- who just got off work and now going to see Mom.

things...

2011-05-05T01:32:00.000-07:00

Lately at the vise I seem to have been a little distracted. With the days warming I have been occupied with tying large things. Wiggly things. Long, swimming things and things that pop and push water like a greasy fat kid on a water park slide...

...all the while neglecting the most basic necessities of any fresh water fly collection.

The bugger is a staple and most likely the first thing you shakily stumbled through on a borrowed vise, forgoing the whip-finish for just a big blob of superglue. Everything eats buggers. I am low on buggers.

Thing #1 - tying buggers.

I like this beer. I like the label and it reminds me of wholesome things; of clean soil that lives in the little dents and cracks of rocks worn smooth by ancient water, of fields of golden tall grass in the afternoon, of soft Midwestern sunsets that I have never seen but imagine are very beautiful.

I like the name. MOTHERSHIP. It has incalculably size and potential, pushing through the interstellar nothingness at two-third the speed of light.

At a predetermined date the flight computer will fire the auxiliary thrusters and rotate the craft one-hundred-and-eighty degrees to begin the deceleration burn. The main drives will fire for eight years, slowing the ship to running speed before the flight crew is woken to make preparations for entering your mouth.

It is tasty in my mouth. Especially with spring rolls.

Thing #2 - drinking beer.

I saw my neighbor talking to the mailman and felt sorry for the guy. My neighbor is lonely and ruthless in his quest for people to talk at and the poor mailman has no choice but to walk through the mans front yard six days a week. Easy prey.

He stands holding his little blind dog, slippers kicking around the dust telling you about residents in the neighborhood steeling money from the dresser draws of dead people, about his "nigger friends" because "that's how we used to say it down south", about how young folk can't name any of the supreme court justices and that people used to know things.

You nod and contribute the occasional "yeah" or "un huh" and think about the fact that the new issue of BloodKnot is out and you would like to check it out but you may never get the chance. You make your move and start slowly backing away towards the sanctity of your carport.

The Blue Collar Issue.

Thing #3 - reading BloodKnot.

Stick that in your schema and smoke it.

The End.

-Alex who needs to clean his bathroom but did all these things instead.

on the good days it does.

2011-05-01T01:25:00.004-07:00

There are probably things that I should tell you. There are also probably things that you would want to hear, that I can't say, won't tell you, or don't know. Not for sure.

We took a trip to a new place. A place where you could probably get down the hill with two wheel drive, but you better hope that transfer case engages if you want to get your ass home.

A place where the end of the road is your only hope and you don't have to walk quite so far to feel like you are truly out of the world...

...and it was good:

The What:

I love poppers... so did they.

The Where:

Sweet Panorama-ness

More sweet panorama-ness

The good water is easy to spot if you know what to look for.

Lucky.

The very end of the road ended up being the only place where we could camp with river access. If someone had been here, I probably would not have been able to turn around and would have had to back the fully loaded truck up a nasty hill a long, long way. Needless to say I am glad there was no one around.

Other Shenanigans:

get your lounge on.

Aaron enjoying smoked space-monsters... good call.

Aaron peed this just for you.

It just looks like you don't want any, but you really do. I promise.

Breakfast of champions.

Dinner of champions.

-Alex who likes getting lucky.

employing your vision

2011-04-20T01:47:00.003-07:00

It is always the same when I close my eyes:

The popper bounces along.

chug.

The sun is bright in the southern sky and I can feel my skin burning an outline around my sunglasses. The line feels thick and heavy, tacky between my fingers.

chug.

There should be fish here. There should be fish everywhere and maybe I have caught a few but maybe I have just arrived. I can't be sure.

chug.

I don't hear wind, breathing, water, birds. All is silent. There is no soundtrack, no special effects, no foley.

chug.

Sometimes I manifest a take, a splash, a tight line that sends little diamond sparkles when it stretches taught away from the surface.

Other times I don't and the popper just floats, over and over through the same ripples and the same dancing sunlight through the same three of four seconds of river. Three or four seconds is not a lot of river when you think about it. It would be asking quite a bit for a willing fish to reside in those seconds. But all it takes is one. One second of flowing water to make a difference. Sometimes you wait days, months, years for that one second.

Sometimes it never comes. But on the good days it does.

chug.

Crappy Times.....

2011-04-13T17:51:00.003-07:00

Working, trying to make money, but still times are hard.
As much as I really hate to do this, I must put this fella up for sale.......
As much as I wanted to get out on the salt, to try to catch some tarpon or shark (maybe it's a bit of jealousy) like Alex has, alas I have not been able to break this guy in. Its all new and will stay that way unless I win the Lottery.

Loop Opti Salt 12wt rod
TFO prism 11/12 reel
Scientific Angler Tropi-core 475 grain line

If you or anyone you know has any interest I will take a reasonable offer.

kyle@fatguyflyfishing.com

Anticipation

2011-04-11T23:30:00.000-07:00

"There is no better moment than this moment, when we are anticipating the actual moment itself. All the moments that lead up the the actual moment are truly the best moments. Those are the moments that are filled with good times. Those are the moments in which you are able to think that it is going to be perfect when the moment actually happens. But the moment is reality, and reality always kinda sucks." -Lewis black

-Alex who knows that hope is a good thing, maybe the best of things, or so he has been told.

My friend Snots

2011-04-08T00:41:00.000-07:00

My friend Snots he's a hell of a guy.

Let me tell you why,

He's the epitome of predatory.

My friend Snots he's a hell of a guy.

Let me tell you all why,

He drips with slimy satisfactory.

My friend Snots is a heck of a joe.

You should watch him go!

Hangin' in the weed line,

With a sharp curve of teeth shine.

My friend Snots has little concerns,

About the flies that he spurns.

Until the line pulls tightly,

With an angry steel finality.

-Alex who loves him some pike and Primus.

HAWG

2011-03-30T19:11:00.003-07:00

So far this fishing season has been good to me!

Finally

2011-03-28T19:10:00.005-07:00

For a while I have been trying to get one of these bastards, Today I finally got one. And then another one! Grass carp are fun!

I bet Rod likes the hat!

Top 10?

2011-03-26T18:23:00.004-07:00

Awesome!

Due to our enjoyment of fishing, and drinking we have made the top ten best fly fishing websites for the fellas at The Daily Hunt and Fish.

As they say,
"Their fat, their fun, their a bit crude, and they love to fish. This is what blogging is all about. A few buddies not only documenting their fishing adventures but also giving us a glimpse into their strange but real life. WARNING this website is not for everybody. I will not pull up this site up with my seven year old next to me. It is a true blog you never know what they will post next."

For me I would like to note some our special talents,
Alex, amazing with the camera, video making, most of the stuff on here, dedication to catch the fish, the only one of us that is fully literate, and putting up with Kyle's shit.

Aaron, Knowing where and when to fish, ability to drink "copious" amounts of booze, producing amazing yet horribly disturbing body smells, and putting up with Kyle's shit.

And for myself, I am always ready to put my body through a new experiment for research or just for the hell of it.

And to the Fellas at Daily Hunt and Fish, thank you for helping up spread the word!

P P P POW!!!!

2011-03-22T21:03:00.007-07:00

Alex Aaron and I went to Patagonia.
Pre-spawn bass can be fun. Toss a fly in their area and piss them off, results are as follow!
Alex and I were at Sportsmans getting ready for the trip, Alex found a crappie jig in the discount bin. It was a green head with a bright magenta marabou body. Alex said "Buy this and throw it all day you will catch the fish."
I said, "I don't want it, its too damn big and too bright for these fish."
Alex kept bugging me to buy the damn thing, and now I am glad he did.
I dropped it and watched the bass circle it for a bit, then he sucked it up!
I tossed it to another bass right after and BAM!!!! Another one.... almost.... It broke me off.

So throwing for fish that just are not interested in anything, I remembered that I pissed off 2 bass and landed the smaller one on some super ugly bright colors. I put a fly on that Aaron tied for me a few years back, Yes it was ugly and bright, I pulled that guy out with it. I am satisfied!
Now for my stupid photo with my big bass of the day!

The Big Ass Florida Post

2011-03-20T19:52:00.007-07:00

It was good pho, and the first time I had been to this particular restaurant. The woman gave me grief about putting the hot sauce directly in the broth, saying that it is cooked for eight hours and if us white boys make it too hot we won’t be able to enjoy the flavor. Whatever. Don’t tell me how to eat my pho just because you are some sort of expert.

The obligatory fortune cookies arrived with the check, and I asked for a to-go to take home the remainder of my delicious broth (because it kicks ass with ramen noodles). She shot me a sideways, judgmental glance and headed back towards the kitchen.

I opened my cookie and smiled, sticking the little piece of paper in my pocket.

That was two days before I left.

THE FLORIDA

Tampa Bay morning.

The first question that crossed my mind when my inbox pinged with the conformation to photograph a beach wedding in Naples was where am I going to fish?

That question was quickly answered by a couple of FB messages, and I was all set to party at the beach.

... as soon as the work was done.

I like Florida. Well, I can't say that. I don't really know Florida, but I like the Ritz Carlton in Naples and their heavy Makers pour, I like the weather in March, I like the beach, I like getting the winter-pale off my feet in the sand, I like the smell of water, I like hanging out with James, Erin and little Cooper in a sweet house in Apollo Beach with its own dock housing twenty-three feet of Bay Runner fishing potential. I like these things.

Bling. This is where the wedding was.

James and his big dock.

Patio and Bella.

Moving on...

THE FISHING

spanish mackerel

James wasn't happy about the weather. The cold front that had just passed. The lunar and solar tables. The tides. I was a little early for the awesomenes, he said, but we made due and I had a good time regardless.

We ran from spot to spot: oyster bars, bays, inlets, outlets, down edges and around points searching for the fish. We caught a few here, and a few there.

Black Drum... ate a shrimp.

Sea trout could beat up most of the trout in my state.

Bay Ninja.

"Go tell your mama what I done."

Morning Mackerel

Solo Red.

Double Jacks

On the eleventh hour, between a metal scrap yard and some other industrial hardware we found this school of jacks and I think these little guys were the highlight of the trip for me, mostly because it was the first time I had something to throw a fly at. The rest of the time was a combination of glass minnows and shrimp covering a lot of water just trying to find the fish.

James told me that I had to come back during the summer when the fishing is how it should be. I think I will have to do that and in no small part because of:

THE FOOD

I love food. I love buying it. I love cooking it and I especially love eating it. So does James.

NIGHT 1: DRY RUB RIBS, SEASONED POTATOES AND GREASY BEANS WITH BACON AND MUSHROOMS

NIGHT 2: FISH TACOS

NIGHT 3: PRIME RIB, ROASTED ONIONS WITH JAMES SECRET FILLING

NIGHT 4: GRILLED MARINATED SHRIMP, GRILLED PROSCIUTTO-WRAPPED AND OLIVE OIL ASPARAGUS, 3-CHEESE TORTELLINI WITH BACON BUTTER SAUCE

Little Cooper helping his daddy with dinner.

So yeah, I had a good time.

The End.

-Alex who knows that this post is pretty ridiculous.

Sandwich and a License

2011-03-16T12:51:00.002-07:00

“Hey, how you doin’?” I asked, adjusting the pack strapped over my shoulder.

The man behind the counter typed something into the register pad and looked up with midday indifference.

“Is Dave around?”

“He is down at the boat.” He flicked his head toward the double glass doors at the back. “He said to tell you to get a sandwich and a license.”

The one I picked had salami and pepperoncinis.

Capt. Dave Trimble

Arsenal

Ammunition

Mmmm chum bucket

Wide angle lens makes my legs look long like donkey kong.

permasmile

The biggest one, I think.

Somehow this little guy got all wound up in shooting head. Capt. Dave is on the case!

You and the captain makin it happen!

There is some part of your animal brain that tightens in the presence of a shark.

I have hooked harder fighting fish and larger fish. Fish with equally brutal teeth. Fish that seem to spend more time out of the water than below. But I have never caught anything more interesting. I have never looked at the fish at the end of the fly line with more child-like intrigue. Watching a big blue shark slowly raise its head out of the ocean and munch a popper evokes awe and wonder in the true sense of the word: awesome.

Fishing with Dave was a fantastic experience. Guiding from Alaska to Costa Rica, Lees Ferry to Panama, he knows whats up, and with 1000+ days on the waters off San Diego he will put you on fish.

He can be contacted through ontheflyfishingcharter.com and californiasharkfishing.com.

-Alex who is still in Florida and loving it.

Ditch...

2011-03-13T16:50:00.002-07:00

Where is Pete McDonald when I need him?

-Alex who will do anything to make K8 happy.

Things

2011-03-11T11:31:00.001-07:00

So, I'm in Florida. I forgot to finish the shark post before I left so you will just have to wait. But, stick around for good fishyness updates from sunny FL when I hit the water with capt. Snyder on Sunday.

Also this is the first update I have made from my phone so if it looks like crap give me some slack.

From Finland With Love

2011-03-04T00:13:00.000-07:00

Baltic Pike Flies, courtesy of Mr. Graham.

Just in time for spring pike. Booyah.

Teaser

2011-03-02T00:30:00.000-07:00

Not lions, not tigers, not bears.

Oh my.

Don't touch that dial.

ZAP GOO syringing

2011-02-15T17:00:00.002-07:00

When gluing Puglisi-style post eyes on flies generally I use his method and use cautrery or a soldering iron to burn a little hole in the fibers then use a bodkin to slice a little ball of glue from the tip of the ZAP GOO II, placing it in the hole and spinning the bodkin while pulling it away to leave a nice clean little glue-ball in the hole for the eye. With Puglisi fibers, Congo Hair, and similar material this technique works great.

Lately I have been tying some baitfish patterns that have flash heads. I have noticed while using the above method to apply the glue has problems when trying to cleanly remove the bodkin from the flash without dragging a bunch of the flash around, making a mess. It is not too big of a deal, but if you are anal like me about finishing your flies then you may appreciate this.

I went to a medical supply store down the street and bought a plastic syringe for $1.50 and filed it with ZAP GOO. It works awesome for applying the perfect amount of glue, right where you want it without disturbing the flash fibers.

A slight hesitation before pulling the syringe away will help keep the GOO from stringing.

I have also found that if you wipe the tip of the syringe with a paper towel between applications it helps keep everything clean.

-A

[Update] If you leave a little GOO poking out of the tip of the syringe, it dries and keeps all the rest of the glue nice and uncured. It is easy to pick off when you need to GOO again.

Also cutting off the threaded sheath around the tip with a razor makes it a little less cumbersome.

SID 6

2011-02-15T16:52:00.000-07:00

Fall Musky.

Bow hunt Elk.

Ducks and Dogs.

Steel-Bows.

Fly tying.

Check it out.

V-Day Crabs

2011-02-14T14:30:00.001-07:00

Have fun and remember your raincoat.

some kind of tying video

2011-02-12T02:52:00.003-07:00

Toilet wax applicator made easy

2011-02-10T23:00:00.004-07:00

You may have already known that toilet bowl gasket wax works just as good as higher priced dubbing wax. And if you didn't, then I am here to tell you toilet bowl gasket wax works just as good as higher priced dubbing wax.

The only issue is one of application.

Just find an empty lip balm, twist the base till the push plate is back at the bottom, and smash the wax into the tube.

Now you have an easy, clean way to wax your thread... and a near-lifetime supply of said wax for around $3.

Happy dubbing.

A Guy Fairy Tail

2011-02-09T22:34:00.000-07:00

Once upon a time, a prince asked a beautiful princess "Will you marry me?"

The princess said NO.

And the prince lived happily ever after and rode motorcycles and screwed skinny big titted broads and hunted and raced cars and went to naked bars and dated women half his age and drank wiskey, beer and rum and never heard bitching and never paid child support or alimony and ate fast food and and kept his house and guns and never got cheated on while he was at work and all his friends and family thought he was super cool as hell and had tons of money in the bank and left the toilet seat up and fished when ever he wanted.

The End.

They should never be where no one can hear them scream

2011-02-08T15:19:00.003-07:00

I had slipped a pair of fine tipped tungsten scissors into my pocket just in case I sealed the deal.

She was maybe a 4, but the pleasures of the flesh were secondary in this situation as I had my eye on the "Fall Foliage" bundle tucked behind her ear while I ordered her another chocolate martini.

My fingers traced the outline of the snipping instrument in my front right pocket.

I could go for it here, the crowd is thin and I am two steps closer to the door than the only guy in the place that might give me any trouble. In her state she might not even notice.

She turns and smiles, thanking me with a little sway in her voice as she downs the drink and places her hand on my chest, biting her lower lip.

No need to rush, I think with a smile.

FineFeatherheads: Spring 2011 from Dakota Hills on Vimeo.

Truth......

2011-02-02T22:09:00.003-07:00

It is said fishing is the sport that will most likely kill you!
Weird.................

I am still alive! RULE!- Kyle

Always sweet

2011-01-31T00:45:00.000-07:00

Great images, no nonsense.

If you don't have focalFISH on your feed reader, you are missing out.

Pepperidge Farm's Golden Bait Fish

2011-01-27T00:03:00.007-07:00

Recipe:

Body - Goldfish, cheddar flavor.
Hook - Daiichi 2546 Salt Water Hook Size 2/0-4/0

Target Species:

Drunks in the kitchen

With a soft, subtle presentation to the counter top this fly can bring heavy action when the target species is near. The action on this fly is not crucial, in fact you want as little movement as possible or target species will spook. Let them come to you and be patient.

I recommend throwing this fly with 8wt-12wt, depending on the average size of the species of your area. A 15lb-20lb hard mono bite tippet is also a good idea.

Have fun and tight lines,
-A

Update: I have gotten a few emails and calls regarding this fly and others for different targeted species. Due to the interest the research team at FGFF has been called back to the lab for further, round-the-clock analysis of a few other patterns and concepts. The reports and research will be posted as soon as it is available. Thank you. -A

The hits just keep coming...

2011-01-26T02:07:00.000-07:00

The woman behind the counter generally wouldn't give you too much shit, and that was all right.

It was a place to go. A place to stumble when you needed that last 6-pack, 40oz, can of cope, taquito or thirstbuster. A place where you knew you could make it back because it was a line-of-sight deal and no matter how hopeless you felt you could always see your way home, even if crawling tore a hole in your bag and you lost your peanut M&M's somewhere along the way.

It was the place across the street, the store, the K, or the market (if you grew up in some backward-ass place).

Whatever you called it, it's gone. Goddammit.

The second let down of the new year.